Gloria in Excelsis: The Angelic Hymn
by brihana25
Summary: If Daddy hadn't gone shopping, and Santa couldn't find them, then that meant Sammy wouldn't have any presents on Christmas morning. And Dean didn't think that was very fair. Preseries / Wee!chester Gen. COMPLETE


**TITLE**: Gloria in Excelsis (The Angelic Hymn)  
**CATEGORY**: Angst, Family, Wee!chester  
**SEASON**: pre-series  
**RATING**: PG  
**WARNINGS**: none  
**DISCLAIMER:** Supernatural, its characters and situations, are copyright Eric Kripke and Warner Bros. Entertainment (The CW). No infringement on, or challenge to, their status is intended. This piece of fiction was written strictly for the entertainment of other fans, and I am gaining no form of compensation for it.  
**MORE DISCLAIMERS:** This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or actual places and locations, is purely coincidental.

**SUMMARY:** If Daddy hadn't gone shopping, and Santa couldn't find them, then that meant Sammy wouldn't have any presents on Christmas morning. And Dean didn't think that was very fair.

* * *

He'd almost stopped missing going to school.

Mommy had always made sure that he was there, every day, and that he was never, ever late. And Mommy had always made sure that his clothes were clean and his shoes were tied and his hair was combed. If it was raining, Mommy made sure he had a raincoat on; if it was cold, Mommy made sure he had his mittens. And when it was time for his class to make their ornaments and presents for Christmas, Mommy made sure that Dean had a dollar in his pocket to give Mrs. Graumenz.

But Mommy was gone, and Daddy said she wasn't ever coming back.

He knew that Daddy tried to remember things, but he was always so sad. And sometimes when Dean would start to ask him where his clean clothes were, or tell him that his shoes were too small, Daddy would cry. And sometimes he wouldn't stop until after Sammy was asleep and Dean was in bed, and Dean didn't like to make Daddy cry.

So Dean had stopped asking Daddy to do the things that Mommy had always done and learned to remember them for himself.

But he couldn't take himself to school, even though he knew how to get there.

He was almost five, and he knew the way because he and Mommy had gone there every day for over a year, but he was afraid to try. He hadn't been to class or talked to his friends or his teacher since that night, and now his clothes weren't always clean, because sometimes Daddy forgot to wash them. And his shoes weren't always tied, because he was just learning to tie them, and he didn't know how to do the double-knot like Mommy did, and sometimes the laces came undone. And sometimes he went out in the rain without a raincoat, because the little apartment they lived in got messy and he couldn't always find it.

But even though he wouldn't walk through the doors of the building, he did walk past the windows of his classroom almost every day when he went for his walk, and sometimes he'd look inside to see what they were doing.

Today, they were making Christmas presents.

Dean could see the bright paper and glue bottles and glitter and string and big foam balls, and he could see and hear his friends smiling and laughing. He thought that maybe he'd go inside, just for a minute, and see if Mrs. Graumenz wouldn't let him make one, too... but then he remembered that he didn't have Mommy to give him his dollar, and he couldn't ask Daddy for one, and he knew that he couldn't go in.

So he stuck his cold hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, because he couldn't find his mittens and thought maybe he'd left them in his bedroom the night Mommy went away, and he started walking back to the apartment building.

Dean didn't know if Santa would be able to find them this year, since they'd had to leave their house. And he didn't think that Daddy had gone shopping since that night. He knew there'd been presents already bought and wrapped, even before Mommy went away, because Dean had gone with her and had helped her pick out a teddy bear for Sammy. He'd even helped wrap it.

But those presents were gone, he thought, gone just like Mommy was gone, and like their house was gone, and they weren't ever coming back either. And if Daddy hadn't gone shopping, and Santa couldn't find them, and Dean didn't have a dollar to make something at school, then that meant Sammy wouldn't have any presents on Christmas morning.

And Dean didn't think that was very fair.

He didn't much care if he got anything on Christmas morning... okay, maybe he did care, but he knew that he didn't really need anything. And maybe he wasn't a good enough boy to get anything, anyway. He was almost five, but he couldn't even always tie his shoes right or remember to put on mittens when he went outside, and sometimes he made Daddy cry – even when he didn't ask for things or even talk so much – so Dean thought that he was probably on Santa's "Naughty List" this year anyway, but Sammy... Sammy was just a baby.

And Sammy needed a Christmas.

Dean crossed the big road that went past their building, kicking at slush with his shoe and thinking his big toe was getting pretty cold sticking out the way it did. He didn't go all the way back to the apartment, because he knew that Daddy and Sammy wouldn't be awake from their naps yet, and he didn't want to wake them up on accident, so he sat down on the bench next to the road and shoved his hands back into his pockets again.

He sat there for a few minutes, swinging his legs back and forth and thinking. He didn't know what day it was, or how long it would be until Christmas, but since his friends were making presents at school and all of the stores he walked past had lights and tinsel and ribbons in their windows, he knew it was close. Mommy would have told him how long he had, because Mommy always remembered things like that, and asking her didn't make her cry.

And then Dean had what he thought was a great idea.

He hadn't gone back to their house after that night, but he thought the downstairs part hadn't burned much, and Mommy had wrapped the presents she bought and hid them in the downstairs closet. She didn't think Dean knew where she kept them, but he did, and he never told her. But he knew that Sammy's teddy bear was in that closet, and maybe even some clothes for him, too, because Sammy's clothes were way too small now, and maybe some blankets, because Sammy was always cold.

So Dean stood up, crossed the big road again, and walked back toward the school. Only this time, instead of going straight, he turned on the road he remembered walking on with Mommy, and went home.

He'd never been scared of his house before, but being there made his stomach feel funny.

The door wasn't locked, which he guessed was probably because no one lived there and no one but him knew about the presents in the closet. He didn't think Daddy even knew.

There was a cold wind blowing through the living room, which didn't feel right at all, but all of the upstairs windows were gone and it was cold outside. Dean looked around and saw a lot of their things still sitting where they'd always been, except that now a lot of them were broken or covered in black stuff or kind of melty looking, and some of them were just gone. He looked up the stairs and thought about maybe going to see what was left in his bedroom, if he maybe had any clean clothes in his dresser or if he could find his mittens, but that weird feeling in his tummy came back, and he thought that maybe going upstairs would be a bad idea.

He knew he didn't have much time, because Daddy and Sammy would be waking up soon and he had to get back to the apartment before they did. Daddy didn't know about Dean's walks in the afternoon, and he didn't want him to find out, because he would get mad and yell, and the only thing Dean hated worse than Daddy crying was Daddy yelling.

Dean ignored the way he felt like he was going to throw up and walked to the closet door. He turned the knob and tried to pull the door open, but it was stuck. He pulled harder, but it only moved a little bit. So he wrapped both hands around the doorknob, put one foot on the wall, and pulled as hard as he could. It creaked and groaned and finally opened with a popping sound, and it opened so fast that Dean landed on his backside on the floor. He glanced around to make sure no one had seen him fall, because he felt like someone had, but that was silly, because he was the only one there.

Laughing a little at himself, he stood up, dusted off his jeans, and looked through the now-open door.

It was dark in the closet, and when he reached up and flipped the light switch, nothing happened. He was a little scared, but not too much, because the sun was still up outside and there was some light coming in through the windows. As long as the closet door was open, he was fine.

Dean saw the presents that he'd known Mommy had put in the closet, all wrapped in red and green paper and stacked in the very back corner. There weren't as many as he'd thought there would be, not even as many as Dean himself had gotten the year before, but Mommy had only just started shopping before she went away. But he knew that some of them were Sammy's, and maybe some of them were even for him, and Mommy had wanted them to have them. His eyes felt funny then, like maybe he was going to cry, which he wasn't because he was almost five and this was his house, and there was nothing to cry about.

The presents didn't really look right, though. He remembered the paper on them being bright and pretty and the corners being square, but these all looked kind of squishy and gray. He'd just started walking toward the back corner to get a closer look at them when he heard the closet door close behind him.

Dean ran back to the door and tried to push it open, but it was stuck again, maybe even more stuck than it had been when he'd opened it the first time. He could hear the wind really blowing in the living room now, and it was getting colder, and he couldn't get the door open. And the lights wouldn't come on, and it was dark, and Daddy didn't know where he was. And he was only four, and he was alone, and the house didn't feel right, and his tummy felt really funny now, and he was scared.

Dean slid down the wall, pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He gave himself permission to cry then, because he figured this was a good enough reason. All he'd wanted to do was give Sammy the teddy bear Mommy bought him for Christmas, and it wasn't fair!

And because his eyes were closed and his head was on his knees, he didn't see her at first. But when he realized the closet wasn't dark any more, and he felt like he wasn't alone any more, and that weird feeling in his tummy went away, he opened his eyes, looked up, and smiled.

* * *

The phone wouldn't stop ringing.

John groaned as he rolled over on his bed, still exhausted despite the three hours of sleep the clock told him he'd gotten. He could hear Sammy in his crib, cooing and babbling at himself, and he could hear the television droning on softly from the living room, playing some cartoon that Dean was watching. He glanced over to make sure that Sammy was all right, and he seemed to be. He was sitting up in his crib, making the sounds that babies make when they're happy, playing with his sheets because there were no toys. He looked up when he heard John moving around, and the smile that spread across his chubby little cheeks was almost enough to cheer John up.

"Dadadada," Sammy said.

John couldn't help but smile a little as he rolled to sitting on the bed.

The phone was still ringing.

Wiping his eyes tiredly, John finally picked it up and answered, not really wanting to talk to anyone but unwilling to listen to it ring any more. "Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Winchester?" the voice on the other end – a woman's voice, definitely – said. "Mr. Winchester, this is Joanie Graumenz. I'm Dean's teacher?"

"Oh, yeah." John had no idea who the woman was; taking Dean to preschool and talking to his teacher had always been Mary's job. "Mrs. Graumenz, yeah. What can I do for you?" He wondered if his voice sounded as worn out as he felt.

"Mr. Winchester, I wanted to call and ask you... I know that Dean hasn't been here since the fire, and..."

"We've been busy," he interrupted, the shift from ambivalence to defense almost as instinctive as it was immediate.

"No, I understand. I can't even begin to imagine how upset you both must be, but that's not why I'm calling."

"So why are you?" he asked.

"I saw Dean standing outside the window today while we were doing crafts, and I just wanted to let you know that he can come back whenever he's ready, and I'll do my best to... "

"Wait, wait," John said, shaking his head. "What? You saw Dean?"

"Yes."

"Outside your window at the school?"

"Yes."

John couldn't figure out if her voice sounded more irritated or patronizing. What he did know was that the woman was either seriously mistaken or just plain out of her mind.

"That's not even possible," he said. "Dean's here. He's watching television."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, of course I'm sure!" he snapped. "What kind of father wouldn't notice if his four-year-old was wandering around town alone?"

"Oh." Mrs. Graumenz didn't sound irritated any more, but she did sound confused. "Then I'm sorry I bothered you, Mr. Winchester. But I meant what I said. We all miss Dean, and we'd be more than happy to see him come back to school again."

John nodded his head slowly. "I'll think about it. Things have just been sort of... crazy... "

"I do understand, Mr. Winchester. Tell Dean that we said hello, won't you? And Merry Christmas."

"Yeah," John answered distractedly. Was it really Christmas already? When did it get to be December? "Merry Christmas to you, too."

He hung up the phone, shaking his head. He didn't know who this Mrs. Graumenz had seen outside her classroom window, but he felt kind of bad for any poor little kid that went walking around in the snow by himself. Just the thought of it left a pit in his stomach.

John pushed himself to his feet and stretched his arms above his head, both hearing and feeling the pops up his spine and in his shoulders as he worked out the worst of the kinks in his muscles. He crossed the room to Sammy's crib in three steps, and scooped the baby up in his arms.

"Let's get you changed, Sammy," he said, "and then we'll go see what Dean's doing."

Changing Sammy only took a minute, since he was only wet, but by the time John was done, the pit in his stomach had widened into a full-blown canyon. He hadn't heard a single sound from the living room, except for the television. No, Dean hadn't really talked in several weeks, but he still giggled at his cartoons, and today, there was no laughing. John had called Dean's name several times, but hadn't gotten an answer yet.

The second John had finished snapping up Sammy's sleeper, he grabbed him up and almost ran through the living room door.

"Dean?"

But the living room was empty; the television was playing to an unoccupied couch. A quick check of the bathroom and the kitchen showed them both to be as vacant as the living room was.

Dean was gone.

The phone started ringing again thirty seconds after that, and this time, John wasn't so quick to dismiss the woman on the other end.

* * *

John was frantic, desperate.

The second phone call had been from their former next door neighbor, Mrs. Warren. She was calling to tell him that she'd seen Dean – his four-year-old son, Dean – walking across the yard of their house by himself. And she thought she'd seen him on the porch and maybe saw him walk in, but that had been almost an hour before, and she hadn't seen him since.

He hated to leave his sons with anyone for any amount of time, but in this instance, he really had no choice. Dean was already in the house – the house that had murdered his mother, as far as John was concerned – and there was no way in hell he was taking Sammy back in there. So John had ended up standing on Mrs. Warren's front porch, listening to her apologize for how long it had taken her to track him down even as he pushed Sammy into her arms and begged her to please keep an eye on the baby while he went to find Dean.

He ran across the yard as fast as he dared, watching every step he took in case Dean had fallen in the snow or gotten hurt in some way, ignoring the overwhelming feeling of dread that was settling around him as he neared the front door. The closer he got, the heavier the air around him felt, the darker the house itself seemed to be, and the more worried about Dean he became.

When he crossed the threshold of what had been, barely six weeks before, his family's home, he felt a sudden and all-encompassing cold that chilled him to the bone. He knew what he'd seen that night, no matter what his friends and family said. He knew that he'd seen pure, true evil, had stood helplessly by and watched as it took his beloved Mary away from him and their sons. And he knew as sure as his name was John Winchester that it was still there.

But there was something else there, too. Something small, and light, and warm. The dark sense of foreboding and danger that had surrounded him seemed to lift. For some reason he couldn't even begin to explain, John suddenly felt safe. And he heard... singing. Someone, or something, was singing "Jingle Bells" in the closet. And whatever it was seemed to be glowing, too, if the small band of light shining out under the door was anything to go by.

It took him only a second to realize that the voice he heard was Dean's. It didn't take him much longer than that to yank the swollen closet door – which Dean was far too small to have opened on his own – open.

The glow that he'd seen under the door was gone, and Dean was sitting on the floor in the middle of the closet, singing happily to himself. He looked up quickly when John opened the door, jumped to his feet, and then into his father's arms.

John held him tightly against his chest for a moment before he knelt down on the floor and held Dean out at arms' length, looking him over for injuries. "Are you all right, Dean?" he asked as he checked his son's arms and legs for bruises or scrapes. "Are you okay?"

Dean had stopped singing as soon as John had opened the door, and obviously didn't feel like talking either, but he nodded his head quickly.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, and he knew as soon as he said it, and as soon as Dean had flinched back from him, that it was exactly the wrong way to react, but he'd been so scared and so worried and – truth be told – he still was. He wrapped his hands around Dean's arms and shook him slightly. "Don't you know it's dangerous here? What were you thinking?"

Dean didn't answer, of course, only looked up at his father, his green eyes brimming with unshed tears and his chin quivering.

"How did you get here? Did you walk all the way here by yourself?"

Dean nodded silently once more, though he ducked his head when he did it this time, staring down at shoes that John suddenly noticed were at least one size too small and had a large hole that the big toe on Dean's right foot was almost entirely visible through. How had he missed that? And why was Dean walking around in the snow by himself, with no mittens on his hands, ten blocks from the apartment... and how the hell had John missed _that_?

"Why, Dean?" he asked, though he knew better than to expect an answer and despite the fact that he was rapidly beginning to see the whole incident as more his screw-up than Dean's. "Why did you come here?"

Dean sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down on it – a habit that John knew he really needed to break him of – and then sniffed and pointed at the back corner of the closet.

John turned and saw what Dean had come for. He stood slowly; the heart that had been hammering in his chest sank into his feet.

"Oh, Dean."

The stack of presents that Mary had started hiding in the closet before her death were still there, but John didn't think any of them were salvageable. The wrapping paper had all but disintegrated from most of them, and those that weren't covered in soot and smoke were moldy from soaking up the water that the fire hoses had left standing on the floor. John remembered what some of those gifts had been, but if he hadn't known before, he'd never have been able to tell what they were by looking at them. The boxes were all misshapen and distorted, labels worn away and contents unidentifiable.

"You came looking for your presents," John said, more to himself than to the little boy whose hand he held so tightly in his own. "Because you're four years old, and it's almost Christmas." John's voice had lost all of its anger and heat, because if there was one thing John understood it was wanting something – anything – that Mary had left behind. "I'm sorry they're all messed up, buddy," he said as he turned back around.

John looked down at his son and saw him – really saw him – for the first time in far too long. He saw the dirt-smudged freckles, the shaggy, uncombed hair that fell into innocent green eyes, the too small jacket and the unwashed jeans that barely covered his ankles. He saw the half-tied shoes with the raveling laces and the hole in the toe, and the tiny hands with cold fingers that should have been inside a pair of mittens.

He saw Dean, as he had been and as he was, and couldn't help but wonder how the boy had gotten himself into such a neglected state in barely more than a month.

John had never felt like such a failure as a father.

"I'm so sorry, Dean."

But Dean, much to John's surprise, wasn't crying any more. Instead, he was looking up at his father with a beautiful smile, shaking his head slowly. Dean bent down to where he'd been sitting and picked something up from the floor, and when he stood back up, John saw what it was. Clutched in those small, innocent hands was one wrapped present that looked as though it had survived almost unscathed. A tiny piece of the wrapping was missing, and through it, John could see a small patch of brown fur sticking out.

John held out his hand, and Dean passed the present to him without any hesitation.

"You helped Mommy pick this out, didn't you?"

Dean's smile grew even wider, and his head bobbed up and down excitedly.

John smiled softly to himself as he thought of what Dean had been through, all the danger he'd unknowingly put himself in, and somehow, it all seemed worth it. As he looked down at the happiness that radiated from his oldest son, John had no doubt in his mind that the gift he held in his hands had been all that Dean had wanted from this closet.

He'd done it all for Sammy.

"Mommy would be so proud of you, for taking care of your baby brother." And she would have been – John somehow knew that without a doubt.

John handed the present back to Dean, smiling at the momentary confusion on the little boy's face. "Why don't you give it to him? Tonight, after supper." Dean frowned and shook his head, but John put his hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

"You don't need to worry about Christmas, Dean. We'll have a tree, and there'll be presents under it for Sammy. And for you. I promise."

Dean's smile returned, and John thought that he'd do anything in his power, anything at all, to keep it there for just a little longer.

There would be a lecture coming for Dean, all about how four-year-old boys didn't go wandering around town by themselves, ever, and how leaving the apartment alone for any reason – with only a few life-saving exceptions – was completely unacceptable and forbidden. But that could wait until tomorrow. Maybe even until after Christmas.

John knew what lived in the dark, what kind of danger existed in the outside world and even inside their own house, and sometimes that knowledge consumed him. The worst part was that at the age of four, Dean already knew about it, too. He'd learned far more than he should have the night Mary had been taken from them, and John would have given anything to be able to take that burden from him, to erase what his son had seen. It was an impossible dream, he knew, but standing in that closet at that exact moment, John thought that maybe, just maybe, Dean might be young enough to forget at least some of it.

He could only hope that it would be the bad memories that Dean would lose as he grew older, and that the happy memories would stay with him.

"Let's go get Sammy and go home, kiddo."

John scooped Dean up into his arms and walked out of the closet, out of the living room, and out of the house.

And if he thought he felt Dean waving over his shoulder as they left, John didn't think anything about it.

* * *

Daddy had let him give Sammy the teddy bear, just like he said he would. But Sammy was just a baby and didn't know what presents were, or how to open them, so Daddy had let Dean teach him. And Sammy had smiled at him, and said, "Deedeedee," which Dean thought was how Sammy said "Dean." And then he'd laughed and pulled on its ears and nose, so he knew Sammy liked his new teddy bear.

After that, Daddy had put them both in the bathtub and let them play in the bubbles, and he'd washed Dean's hair and brushed the tangles out. And then he'd put them both in clean jammies, kissed their heads and told them good night. And Dean thought that maybe Daddy wasn't quite so sad any more, because he smiled at him and Sammy a lot, and doing the things that Mommy always remembered to do wasn't making him cry.

Dean climbed out of bed and into the crib with Sammy, who was babbling to himself and chewing on his teddy bear's ear. He pulled the blankets up, because he didn't want Sammy to get cold, and he smiled.

"Do you know what angels are, Sammy?" he whispered. "I think you don't, because you're just a baby, but that's okay, because Mommy told me all about them, and I'll tell you about them, too."

Sammy kept babbling and chewing, and Dean leaned closer to him.

"The best and most secret part about angels, Sammy? And you have to promise not to tell... but Mommy is one. And she's watching over us. She told me so herself."


End file.
